


An Empire of Broken Wine Bottles

by MotelsandDiners



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Character Development, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fluff, Fuck you writer's block, Getting to Know Each Other, He's irrefutably moody but he has his soft moments, Inexperienced Oswald, Listen i've written Oswald as a complex character and i'm not actually sure he is one, Open Ending until i figure what the hell I'm doing, Pretty much all kinds of tension, Reading Between The Lines, Set during S1, Sick!Oswald, Sick!Reader, Slow Burn, Tension, Wit and snark, Writing in spite of writer's block, You're Welcome, i've made you unnecessarily complex, same thing for you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-06-07 19:14:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15226020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MotelsandDiners/pseuds/MotelsandDiners
Summary: Arranged marriage. You've found yourself in one, and for lack of a reason. There is no explanation, no release of information, you are quite in the dark and resenting every minute of it. Whoever it is that you've been infuriatingly betrothed to, you don't want to marry him, whoever he is. This is unorthodox and short of fleeing the country you've no way out of it. You hate this. And nothing could change your mind. Absolutely nothing. Not. A. Thing.Too bad you're wrong.





	1. The Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> To fall in love is to create a religion that has a fallible god.

When you were a child you dreamed of never-ending days, and green plains, and meadows of the prettiest flowers. You dreamed of princes, and castles, and beautiful dresses befitting a queen. You dreamed of one day marrying a man who always dressed his best, and would rescue you from bad men, and take you on walks in parks, and would treat you to candlelight dinners.

When you were a child you were told that you would marry a certain man when you were both older. It was an agreement made long before you were born and there was nothing you could do to get out of it. But you didn’t mind back then. You thought you were getting the world on a platter. You thought you were going to marry a prince.

You asked a million questions. What he looked like? What his name was. Did he live in a castle? Was he nice? What was his favorite color?

The list goes on. You didn’t understand back then just how unfair it was. But as you got older, as you noticed other boys and boys noticed you…well, the situation became clear when your parents sat you down and explained the situation to you again. This time it all sunk in, and you were in no way pleased with the information.

There was no pre-set date. No idea when you were going to meet this man you were supposed to marry, as per an agreement cloaked in mystery and clandestine purpose. Something about a debt being repaid.

In retaliation to the situation you continued to date well into college. But somehow, some way, the relationships would fail. After hardly weeks of the relationship, your boyfriend of the time would back out, call it all off with a wavering voice and a spark of something (fear) in his voice. And that would be all he wrote.

Nothing ever lasted.

You put the arrangement from your mind. As far as you were concerned, you would marry no one.

You worked part-time at a jazzy coffee shop between a florist’s store and a discount bookstore (where you also worked part-time), and you had calm weekends, and a cabinet full of all kinds of teas and coffees and life was good. You weren’t living the high life, but you were doing well on your own and you were proud of it.

You were living the life you wanted until one day your phone rang and it came crashing down.

It was time, apparently.

Your father had made the call, given you the details, and you had promptly hung up on him.

There was silence for days afterwards, and you were naïve enough to think it would fade, that it just wouldn’t happen. Because- honestly, it’s the 21st century, nobody has arranged marriages anymore.

There was an interlude scheduled, a brief period before the wedding where the two of you were supposed to get to know each other, and you made yourself as busy as possible.

For what good it did you: your father had shown up at your workplace (both of them), and your apartment, and pleaded with you. Practically begged. You didn’t give an inch, not until he agreed to pay off your debt from college. It wasn’t much, but with the jobs you have, you’d be working for decades in order to pay it off.

So, now, here you sit in a pleather booth, nursing the last cup of coffee in the diner’s sole coffee pot while you wait to meet your fiancé. Your father isn’t an idiot, he’s outside the diner, leaning against the window, watching the street. He knows you’d try to run if given half the chance.

The diner is old, it’s weathered some storms and earned its place on the streets of Gotham. The staff is hardened, curt, borderline rude, but you understand.

You take a drink of your coffee, eyeing the street, watching passerby much like your father, and you hope against all common sense that maybe your _fiancé_ will simply not show up.

But fate is against you, it seems. From the far right two people approach your father. One of them is an older woman with faded blonde hair, and an airy disposition as if she’s not sure what’s happening at any given moment. And the young man behind her. Well, he grabs your attention for a number of reasons. The most obvious being his limp.

The second thing you notice is his ink black hair spiked in the back with short bangs that brush his forehead at angle.

The expression he’s wearing is just as sour as your own.

The woman and your father exchange some words and then she’s peering through the window at you and you straighten in your seat as dread falls into your stomach like a rock. She smiles widely, her eyes twinkling, and you take a large gulp of your coffee again to off-set the tingling nausea in your jaw.

You drop your gaze as the door opens and all three of them march in like the procession of pall-bearers at a funeral, and you try to quell the fury-soaked words on the tip of your tongue.

So, as she introduces herself, you lock eyes with your father and give him the brunt of your malice.

She has an accent that you can’t immediately place, and she’s so excited to meet you, but all you can utter out as you glare at your father is a dry-toned: “Charmed, Ms. Cobblepot.”

She’s not at all deterred and introduces her son to you with such pride you’d think he’s next in line for a throne. He won’t look at you, and you won’t look at him. In fact, you take that moment to not look at any of them, you pick up your cup and drink more of your coffee and pin your gaze to the table with hopes that it will somehow swallow you.

Their exit is slow and cluttered with looks over their shoulders and hesitating footsteps once outside the diner. His decision to sit down across from you is just as slow, and the air that surrounds him is just as permeable, just as jittery and reluctant.

But he does sit. With his hands in his lap and his eyes stuck to the table much like you. But the bitterness he carried in here is now absent. He’s uncertain, nervous, and you’ve a feeling the scowl you’re wearing is the reason for it.

Silence reigns supreme for a solid ten minutes as you stew in indignation and he fumbles for something to say, scrambles to find something to do.

This is far different from the dreams you had when you were a child. He is no prince, there is no castle, there is no sun.

And you are no princess.

“How long have you known?” You ask him, and he jumps in his seat from the sudden break of silence, the hammer that is your question against the wall of tension between you two.

“K-known what?” He puts his clasped hands up on the table, puts them back into his lap, swallows jumpily, and you sigh.

“About-” you gesture between the two of you briskly, “ _this_.” You hail the only working waitress over your shoulder and get a little more irritated when she huffs haughtily.

“Oh,” He glances around, and wrings his hands in his lap. “A few weeks.”

“A few-” you gape and shake your head. “A few weeks? And you just said ‘what the hell?’”

He smiles shakily. “No. I- I refused to take part…but look at what good that did.” He chuckles nervously.

You close your eyes with a heavy exhale and drag your tongue across your lips. But you say nothing because your waitress has reached your table, cocked her hip, and obnoxiously popped her gum to announce her arrival.

“What do you want?” she asks curtly, and you clear your throat,

“Is anything on your menu palatable or is it all as off-putting as this motor oil you call coffee?” you ask her in a neutral tone, and she frowns so hard you wonder if she’s going to smear her cheap lipstick across her chin. You can feel Oswald staring at you in mute shock, and for some reason that makes you grin inside.

The waitress tips her chin and you ready for her rebuttal, you can’t wait for it.

But she meets your gaze and she blinks a couple times, works her mouth into shapes vaguely resembling the act of speech, and you smirk.

“Don’t worry about it. We’re leaving,” You say non-chalantly and then look at Oswald, “Drink? You want a drink? Let’s go get a drink.”

You’re out of the booth before he can formulate a response, and you’re halfway to the door by the time he catches up to you, and when he speaks his voice cracks,

“A-are you okay?”

You hum. “Oswald- can I call you Oswald? I’ve had a rough 16 years of coming to terms with this arrangement.” You politely hold the door open for him, and after a moment of gawking at you he realizes and walks through.

“Sixteen years?” He says in disbelief, and you nod brusquely.

“Truth be told, I still haven’t come to terms with it, even with the inevitable hanging over us like the blade of a guillotine.” You glance at him as you walk, glance at his beak-like nose and the spattering of freckles along his cheeks, and you sigh.

“You- you really hate this.” He remarks and limps a little faster because he’s having trouble keeping up with your fiery gait, and he’d rather not ask you to slow down, rather not give you another reason to be angry.

“I do.” You agree simply and pull a pair of sunglasses from your coat pocket. The looks you’re getting from passerby is grating on your nerves. “For sixteen years I’ve been told- well, it doesn’t matter. Not now. Not ever.”

Oswald bites at his lip, and then presses his lips together. “You hate me by extension, then.”

The statement draws you short and you stop in the middle of the sidewalk much to the inconvenience of people around you. Oswald halts next to you, watching your profile in uncertainty, watches your jaw stiffen, loosen, your lips purse.

Oswald won’t lie to himself. He finds you attractive. But he also finds you intimidating, more-so the second than the first.

When you turn your head to look at him, it’s all he can do to not flinch. “No. It would be easy, but it wouldn’t be fair.”

Oswald twitches a nervous smile, one that’s gone as soon as you ask him a question.

“You know nothing about why we’re in this position?”

Oswald shakes his head so hard you’re surprised it doesn’t fly off his neck. “No. Like I said, I didn’t know anything about this until a few weeks ago. My mother won’t tell me anything- I don’t know how many times I’ve asked.”

He’s being earnest, you can tell that much. You heave a sigh, “Oh, well. Until I can find a way out of this, well- there’s no reason I can’t be civil.” You muse aloud, and Oswald, for the third time since meeting you feels his spine shudder.

He thinks…you could be more intimidating than Fish. There’s something about your eyes, your tone of voice, the way your mood jumps from one spectrum to the other.

But he still finds you attractive. So, there’s that.

You could either be the worst thing to ever happen to him or the best. He’s anxious to find out which.


	2. The Icebreaker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You can't leave well enough alone. You've got to poke the bear because you need an outlet. With no actual friends or life outside of work you find a target. An unwilling one, an innocent one, if you're being honest. But you're just a little petulant, and indignant, and fury is blind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's that other thing people say is blind? Oh, yeah...

Oswald swears that as long as he shall live he will never drink with you again. His head is still pounding and his stomach has been rolling in waves all day. He’s been on the brink of throwing up for so many hours he feels he’s about to go insane.

The club is typically low-lighted, and it is today and for that he’s grateful. But he’s still wearing the sunglasses, those won’t leave his face until he’s home and alone and he can agonize in the middle of his bed like a sick child.

The music is far too loud and he finds himself rubbing at his temples, trying in vain to alleviate the vicious throbbing there. Today, Mooney has lounged in the club, and treated herself a queen. She’s had business meetings with three different people, and each conclusion has left her in varying moods, and Oswald used just about all of his mental, and verbal capacity for the day just to respond in appropriate fashion.

He’s never been this hungover. Ever. And he never wants to be this hungover ever again. Even if your company went hand in hand with another bender.

Mooney dismisses him early in the evening and he takes to his dismal, small office at the far end of the club, away from the music and raucous laughter of patrons with relief and zeal. He’s never been so happy to step foot in his cramped and dusty office.

He doesn’t have much to do, mostly just go over stock, mark down things they’re in need of, and checks to make sure profit exceeds expense on some alcohols and meals and what have you. It takes him longer than he anticipates. Mostly because the words blur and run across the page, they jitter like startled insects and the more he squints, the more he focuses- or tries to -the worse it gets.

Only when his stomach lurches does he lean back in his chair and heave a gargantuan sigh with tightly closed eyes. You were all smooth laughter, and glittering vernacular, and the faintest of alcohol induced blushes adorned your cheeks last night as you talked about this and that, gesturing with your glass in hand all the while.

You were amiable, and charming, and you talked to him. Only him.

He drank to keep up, so only if he did something or said something foolish he could pass it off on the alcohol and not because you made him nervous. You didn’t seem to notice.

You had him laughing, smiling without restraint. And even though the arrangement made your features stony, and caused a rain cloud over your head, Oswald couldn’t help but feel a little giddy about it. That fate had placed you so auspiciously into his hands.

You were- are -alluring, captivating. You’re intense, and attractive, you’re fashionable and self-aware. Just a tad cocky, but he finds that too appealing about you. You walk into a room as if you own it and at the same time as if you are far above the venue and company itself. You are modern, but you also carry romantic and optimistic views that are guarded and hidden behind your steely monochrome practicality.

Oswald…is smitten. Lucky him.

A sudden, terse pattern of knocks sounds from his door, and Oswald startles in his chair. The door opens and Butch holds it open wise.

“I can’t believe the words about to come out my mouth-” Butch’s eyebrows are raised as he shakes his head in disbelief, “But a dangerously attractive woman is out here asking for you. Says her name is…Y/N.” he says your name like a question.

Oswald’s eyes widen comically. What are you doing here? How did you found out where he worked? Did he tell you last night when he was plastered at the bar? Or maybe after? He can’t remember anything past the bar and your warm smile.

“Y-yes. I know her.” He says, his voice tight with nerves, and again, Butch’s eyebrows shoot skywards. “Is she at the bar?” He asks as he scrambles to his feet and Butch opens his mouth to answer when the click of heels silences him.

“It’s quite dark back here. Might consider putting a few lights in.” You stand just outside the door, skin tight jeans appearing black in the dimness of the hallway, sunglasses sit atop your head, holding your hair away from your face.

Oswald gapes, and even Butch is struck off-balance.

“I – I thought I told you to wait at the bar?” He’s not angry, more like he’s in awe, curious as to what you’ll do. Surely, you know the place, know who runs it, know the nature of the club.

“Mm. Not really in the habit of following orders. And-” you shrug, “I didn’t die on the way back here and no one tried to stop me, so really, what was the point?”

Butch splutters and peers around you down the hall. “N- no one-? You just-?” he takes off, large strides carrying him with purpose towards the front of house.

You watch him go with a small smirk and turn your attention to Oswald who is still staring at you like a fish out of water. You step into his office, and nudge the door nearly closed, allowing the faintest streams of light from the hallway to spill in.

“Y/N.” Oswald’s hands fiddle suddenly at his tux, smoothing the lapels, tugging the hem lower. “I – I didn’t think-…it’s good to see you.” He stutters out, he removes his sunglasses, and drops a hand to his desk to steady himself. Being in such a small space with you isn’t doing his legs any favors.

“Yes, well. In a few weeks we’ll be seeing a lot of each other. For the rest of our lives,” You point out blandly and fold your arms. “Unless of course something tragic befalls one of us.” You say off-handedly, and Oswald’s knees feel weak for a different reason now.

You sigh when Oswald’s expression remains uncertain, his eyes wide. “We do live in Gotham, after all.”

Oswald releases a shaky breath with an even shakier smile. “Yes, of course. Not to sound rude, but what are you doing here?” he’s not sure he likes being in such small darkened rooms with you.

“Well, I talked to your mother today. She suspiciously showed up at my place of employment, and we got to talking, you know how that happens- and you came up.” You smile faintly, “She could talk about you for days. Anyway, your job came up, and I was curious, so she told me. Though, I have to say,” You pause to approach his desk and much like him you place a hand on it. You lean forward, “Lying to your mother about the nature of your job…” You let that trail off.

Oswald isn’t sure if it’s a threat but he perceives it as much. “She knows what she needs to know.” He insists with a sharp tone, and it coaxes a stronger smile from your lips.

“Which is nothing at all.” You remark coolly with a cocked brow.

“Exactly.” He practically hisses.

This is a new side to Oswald. There’s no stuttering, no askew glances, or slouching posture. He’s poised and sharp around the edges. His eyes gleam like knives under moonlight, and his tone is waspish, harsh. He is not shy and hidden in himself.

The music is quiet, muted from all the way back here, but you can hear the bass of whatever song is going. The faint murmur of conversation and the clink of glasses.

“Ignorance is bliss, hm?” You muse, you tilt your head and Oswald blinks.

“We all have our lies to keep for other people.” Oswald retorts confidently, resigned.

Your smile grows wider, more ambiguous. “I don’t.”

“You will soon.” He says and straightens. “In a week what’s mine will be yours.”

He’s smug, carefully so. You bristle, and venom drips from your lips, “So, nothing much.”

His lips purse flat. You’ve hit a nerve: his pride. Oswald’s jaw stiffens to stone, and his eyes take on an ice-like hue.

You chuckle. “And you said it was good to see me.”

He swallows. “It was. For a moment.”

You lick your lips and drop your sunglasses over your eyes. “By the way, your mother wanted me to remind you that you still need to pick up the rings. I’m assuming she isn’t talking about the ones children get from vending machines- though with your income…” you cut yourself off and turn on your heel, missing the furious look and blush of embarrassment that blooms across Oswald’s face.

Just before you make it out the door, he asks you a question you’re sure burns him up inside.

“What’s your ring size?”

You scoff. “Don’t worry about it.” You shut the door behind you.

The message was clear to Oswald: you weren’t going to wear the wedding ring after the ceremony. Knowing you, you’re most likely going to hyphenate your name too.

He wonders just how exactly the mood turned from something soft and cursory, to something hard and hostile and unbending.

His headache has returned with a vengeance, and with it, his nausea. But he’s furious, and agitated, and his blood is buzzing, and he needs out of this office. With hardly a thought, he leaves, limping as fast as he can go.

He catches up to you just outside the club, and without planning anything at all, he grabs your elbow.

Being as it’s Gotham, you expect the worst, and whirl around with a clenched fist. Oswald just sees it coming and is able to lean out of its trajectory. He glares at you heatedly, and you return it.

“I’m sorry,” he snaps you, eyes narrowed, and he has no idea what he’s apologizing for but words are on his tongue and he’s just as surprised as you. He lets them go, “I know this is unfair, it’s unorthodox. And you thought you’d marry someone you were in love with, or someone at least that had something to offer. I’m sorry that I’m not attractive, or wealthy, or well-respected. Mostly, I’m sorry that I have to be sorry.”

He’s breathing heavily, a bead of sweat rolls down the back of his neck and his face is flushed. You say nothing, only gawk, struggling to hold onto your glare. Oswald’s expression holds all of two seconds before he blanches and turns on his heel to lumber towards the alley. He slaps a hand against the bricks and then leans over to vomit.

You grimace at the sounds of him retching and turn your gaze away. His words, and now his predicament has you softening, against your desire to remain angry. He dry heaves so hard you think he might hack up a lung, and you hesitantly make your way over to him, ignoring the puddle of sick at his feet.

Wordlessly, you produce a half empty bottle of water from your bag as well as a pack of gum. You tap his shoulder with the bottle and offer him both when he leers at you, sweat beaded across his forehead.

His ice-blue eyes dampen in their intensity. He accepts your peace offering, and the shakiness of the peace itself. Who knows how long it will be before you’re both at each other’s throats again. And over something so simple as an ill-placed comment.

He leans against the side of the building, watching you with your crossed arms and parted lips as you watch traffic shoot by. He watches the reflections in your sunglasses with detached interest. He chews the spearmint gum you offered him gratefully, though the back of his throat still burns and scratches.

He has no experience with women, with romance, with friendship. He’s no idea what to do, what to say. But he does know he shouldn’t stare at you, after a certain amount of time it just becomes rude and creepy. So, he turns his gaze skyward.

Thunderheads are moving in above the skyline opposite the street you’re on, and Oswald, if he wants to get home before the rain rolls in, should start walking home. But he doesn’t.

“Looks like rain,” he remarks lamely.

“It does.” You agree, your tone discouraged, bland.

“Do you live close?” He finds himself asking, and to cover his nerves, he blows a rather large bubble that covers half his face from view when you look over your shoulder.

“No.” You reply dejectedly. You won’t make it home before the clouds break. It looks like a particularly nasty storm as well.

“I do,” he states, tone neutral after the bubble pops and he wrestles the gum back into his mouth. “You could stay until the storm passes.” It isn’t a question, but it sounds like one.

Your brows furrow the smallest amount. “I could?”

He shrugs. “Of course,” but he doesn’t look at you, instead he moves away from the wall and clasps his hands in front of him. “In exchange for your ring size.”

Your eyelid twitches slightly, and you fight the urge to grit your teeth. Thunder rolls beyond the horizon, and it’s just enough to make you give up your pride. “6.”

Oswald smiles. Not smugly, not in victory. It’s just a regular, happy kind of smile. “This way.” He says, and starts off down the sidewalk, his mood lifted. He’s gloating inside, you can tell.

Reluctantly, you follow him, a hand clenched tightly around the strap of your satchel bag. There is no conversation as you walk. It’s just as well. He’s in a good mood, and you’re in a foul one.

There’s a crack of lightning that has you both picking up your pace, and even as you wander into a decrepit and rundown part of Gotham, you don’t have it in you to judge because the prospect of shelter from the storm is worth more than the aesthetic of his apartment building.

You feel the least bit sorry for him though, having to live in such a dismal place.

He shoulders front door of the building open just as the clouds pour and you rush in behind him. He isn’t expecting you so close, and he turns to shut the door, he falters, just inches from you. And you hastily back away, ramming into the wall of the hallway so harshly that the air in your lungs is expelled in a rough grunt.

Oswald says nothing. He clears his throat awkwardly, and gestures towards the staircase on the right of him. “I’m afraid we’ve a climb ahead of us. The elevator is out of order.” He apologizes, and you merely nod in understanding.

He leads the way and you follow. Not bothering to look behind you. There is no out of order sign on the elevator. In fact, the elevator is in perfect working condition. Oswald…well, he doesn’t think he could handle being in such close quarters with you again so soon.

Whether because it would incite his bad temper, it would incite yours, or because- well, we’re just going to pretend he doesn’t have a third reason.

“Ugh. Stairs,” You groan after the third case of them. “What floor do you live on?” you complain, pulling yourself forward with a mean grip on the railing.

Oswald rolls his eyes. “The fourth. At least you don’t have a limp.”

“Right.” Your gaze is drawn to his right leg. “Can I ask?”

Oswald stops in the middle of the fourth staircase. “About my leg?”

You swallow and adjust the strap of your bag. “…yeah.”

“No.” his response is sharp and unapologetic. He continues on, “If I ever want you to know, I’ll tell you. Though I doubt I’ll ever want to tell you.”

You smirk ever so slightly. “Go drinking with me again. You were quite agreeable.”

Oswald groans at the idea of alcohol. “I will never drink with you again for as long as I shall live,” he solemnly vows, shooting you a serious look.

You laugh, and the conversation ends on a friendlier note. A contrast to the mood of nature outside. A storm is running Gotham for its money. Rain is pouring in torrents, thunder roars and lightning crackles violently. Thunder clouds have hidden the sun from view and everything is dark.

Much like Oswald’s apartment. You weren’t expecting much. Even so… his tiny apartment has you feeling appreciative of your own.

You suddenly miss it.

He closes the door behind you, locking it, and leaving the key in the lock. At the strange look you give him he explains that people have tried to break in before.

“That’s…maybe I should’ve taken my chances in the storm…” You glance out the window by his bed, knowing your words are just words.

Oswald however takes just the slightest offense for whatever reason. “You still can.”

You scoff. “I gave up my ring size. I’m not forfeiting the shelter I rightfully earned.”

Oswald hums as he moves about his apartment. He procures a pack of matches from some kitchen drawer and proceeds to light candles he has placed around his apartment. Wisely, none of them are placed near flammable things.

“Whenever there’s a storm this bad, the power refuses to turn on. I’ve learned to prepare myself for just such occasions.”

Once again, you’re struck by the poverty he’s forced to endure. While it is true that you don’t live in a palace, at least you have power, and your ceiling doesn’t shed dust, and you don’t have the fear of catching some terrible disease for so much as breathing in your apartment.

You pity him. Though you’ll never tell him that. You think he’ll snap at you or react coldly.

While it is true that you aren’t a fan of the event due to occur in a week’s time, you also realize that antagonizing Oswald, turning him into an enemy, would heighten your misery rather than lessen it.

Without your volition, your feet carry you to the window by his bed and you stare out the water spotted pane into the downpour outside, cursing mother nature to hell and back.

“It seems a ridiculous number of things have been working against our favor lately,” Oswald remarks quietly by the kitchen table, considering sitting down. He feels out of place in his own apartment.

You hum with a slight nod of your head, and peer down into the blurry street below, spotting a few colorful umbrellas on the sidewalk. You should feel strange standing in his apartment, uncomfortable, your skin should be crawling. But it isn’t.

There’s an unlit candle on the end table by his bed and you furrow your brows.

With a sigh, you turn around to face the room. Candles are aglow in the kitchen and at every end table he has them on. There’s one at the kitchen table and it casts shadows across his face, plays with the gleaming pin-pricks of his pupils. He’s decided to sit.

“I could be wrong,” you find yourself talking suddenly, and you hope you don’t get yourself into more trouble, as seems to be the common theme with you lately, “But you don’t seem all that perturbed or against the wedding itself.”

Oswald leans back in his chair. He is quiet for a time, soaking in the sound of the storm, and wondering, not for the first time, if there’s any chance that this all could work out well. He has plans, plans to move up in the underworld, and he’s already started on them. He never gave much thought to marriage, to dating.

He had just accepted that no one would ever see him in a light, a flattering one, anyway. He has a limp, he’s pale, the spattering of freckles on his face are unflattering, his nose is unattractive, his voice is nasally, he isn’t particularly tall…

He had no hopes of finding anyone to share his life with. He had deigned himself to decades of loneliness and solidarity. And he was okay with that, he had accepted it. He had a good portion of his life planned out, centered around himself of course.

But now, now things have changed, drastically. You’re a spanner in the works, something he had never considered. His plans, though mostly the same, now require a little more thought.

“What good would it do?” he says finally and folds his arms over his chest. He pins his flat gaze to the table. “Though it’s against my nature, I’m going to try to find something good about the situation. What else..?”

You grunt. “How practical.” You shake your head and look over your shoulder at the window again, the raging storm.

“Would you like to sit down?” Oswald asks you, his hands clasped together atop the table. His expression is unreadable.

You rather wouldn’t. The idea of being sat at a table with him, an empty table- nothing to occupy yourself with -after the less than amicable hour you’ve spent together, it makes your jaw tick. But your heels are starting to make your feet ache, and he’s right.

Frustrating as it is, you should try to find something positive about this whole mess.

Your heels click dully on your way over, you swing your satchel bag off your shoulder and lay it on the floor by the table’s leg. His gaze is locked on his hands, fingers so tight the knuckles are blanched sheet white, and you have to admit- reluctantly -that in certain light, in certain shadow, he’s not bad looking.

As you sit down, he glances at you briefly to shoot an unsure smile at you. You find his duality amusing. How he can go from a stuttering, shy, anxious young man to the confident, dangerous, stiff-backed man you saw in that quaint office of his.

With a ragged sigh, you slip your sunglasses off and lay them on the table. You carefully rub at your tired lids, trying to chase the dry sting there. Ever since you’d been told weeks ago that it was time to officiate this marriage you’d had trouble sleeping.

Aside from the fact that you were being forced to do something you didn’t want, there was a bare, obvious, simple reason you were loathing to go through this all the more. You just weren’t ready for marriage. Not that it matters.

Oswald, as discreetly as he can, watches you. Your hair falls down to frame your face in playful waves, accenting the shape of your overall face, but it draws into focus the slice of your cheekbones and elegance of your jawline. As you toy errantly with the legs of your sunglasses, Oswald admires the length of your eyelashes, and the color of your eyes, the strange allure and authority they have. He quite likes the way your eyes catch the light and hold it captive within your bright irises like a reluctant audience.

And then he’s caught in them, caught in their brilliance and subtle hostility and he makes no attempt to escape. But you’re not outright hostile, not yet.

“What is it?” you ask him, after catching him staring. He’s on the border of being apologetic, having been discovered, but he rethinks and shakes his head,

“Nothing. It’s just-” Oswald drops his gaze and observes candle wax run down the length of the burning candle. Lightning flashes outside, illuminating the room in a stark hue of blue light, and thunder follows soon after, and he watches your shoulders jolt slightly in surprise.

The words are on his tongue, they sit lightly, like honey, but they sting like whiskey, and it’s the sting that tells him he should keep his thoughts to himself. You wouldn’t welcome his words, he knows. Or- maybe said correctly, he could voice what he’s thinking.

His lips twitch minutely at the corners, and he tucks his chin to his chest. “I hope you’ll forgive me for saying so-” you bristle in preparation, your eyes flashing, and Oswald almost backs out, but he tucks his hands into his lap and stares at the table. “You are a very alluring woman.”

Normally, you’d be put-off, you’d scoff at the compliment. You’ve heard it before, from every class of man and it’s never worked. You’re not against being flirted with, you’re really not. But you’ve had your fill at bars and subway stations, and flirtation without effort, without eloquence, is as appealing as spoiled food.

But he’s not flirting. He’s too shy, too withdrawn and unsure to have gone through with something like a flirtation. His body language tells you that much. He was just making an observation.

A wan smile flits across your lips. “Thank you.”

He swallows jumpily and nods, still unable to look at you, and it fortifies your smile.

Outside it pours, inside it simmers.


	3. The Unforeseen Circumstances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To be reckless for selfish reasons is foolishness, to be reckless for others is bravery. And you think it all goes hand-in-hand. You wonder what kind of reckless you're being with Oswald.

Somehow or another you both end up swapping numbers, and you don’t talk hourly, or send a multitude of texts to one another. It was merely customary more than anything. There’s no pleasant inflection of his name within your contacts, it’s simply “Oswald”. You imagine that it’s the same for him.

The day has dragged on long, and it’s been incredibly dull. Your coworkers have- on a number of occasions -tried to engage in workplace gossip but you just don’t care enough about anyone’s private life to listen.

They’re pleasant folk, all the same, if a little mundane but you can’t really talk.

You haven’t heard anything from your father since you first met Oswald at that dingy diner, and you can’t say you’re surprised, or hurt. Because you aren’t. He’s always been distant with you, never the doting father.

And you learned to not need his attention. Maybe, somewhere down the road, unintentionally, you’d begun to spite him.

You sigh for the umpteenth time today, reclining on your mauve cotton loveseat, watching the clouds drift across the sky like they’ve all the time in the world. You suppose they do.

Music quietly emanates from your stereo against the wall dividing the kitchen from the living room, and it’s just loud enough to keep you from daydreaming. You’ve the rest of your evening to spend and the bottle of liquor in your cabinet is sounding rather welcoming.

Unlike the chiming of your phone.

Your eyes widen when you see the name scrawled across the black screen. Oswald.

Hesitantly, with some dark emotion pooled in your stomach, you answer your ringing cellphone.

“Y/N!?” his voice is shaky, raspy, and tugged tight with worry and you scrunch your eyebrows.

“Y-yeah?” You stand up, that liquor and your stomach are about to get acquainted.

“Oh, thank God,” You hear him mutter into the phone but it’s muffled and you venture that he pulled the phone away to hide his outburst. You won’t tell him you heard. “Listen, this will sound crazy but you may need to leave Gotham.”

You stop in the middle of your kitchen. “Pardon?” you say, rather incredulous. If you didn’t know him better- and honestly, you really don’t, but -you’d think he’s on the emotional end of drunkenness. He sounds desperate and incoherent and his breathing is uneven.

“I- _shit_!” there’s the unmistakable hiss of static, and the tumble and clatter and muffled noise of voices and you realize he dropped his cellphone. You cradle the phone between your cheek and shoulder and uncap your liquor as you wait for him to come back. When he does, his voice is stronger, “The short version is that I’m a snitch, Y/N, and things are looking-…not promising.”

You roll your eyes and groan, and take a glass from your dish rack, “Are you serious, Oswald? I’d tell you how stupid you are but I just don’t have that kind of time.”

He chuckles weakly into the receiver and you pour a generous amount of alcohol into your glass. “I don’t know if Mooney knows about you, or if anyone will draw conclusions from that one visit to the club, but,” Oswald cuts himself off, and listens to you breathe, listens to the tinkle and merry jingle of glass on glass and- “-are you drinking?” he sounds put-off.

You shrug even though he can’t see you. “I got off work early, I don’t have anything to do,” you’re so flippant, a stark contrast to him who has his fists balled, and his eyes wide open looking for danger as he walks the busy streets of Gotham.

There’s another pause where he doesn’t say anything because he’s too busy making sure he doesn’t bump into anyone and you’re walking back to your loveseat to sit down, the bottle and glass clunking down on your coffee table.

“Wanna have a drink?” You ask conversationally, and you’re sure you actually hear him wretch over the phone. You smile, “Is that a no?”

“You need to- I don’t know, buy a gun or something, carry mace with you,” Oswald retorts, ignoring your question, a car honks shrilly from the street and he winces, shrinking away from the sound.

You hear it. “Where are you?”

“Why?” The suspicion is deep in his tone, and you smile impishly, gleeful that you’ve always got him guessing. He makes it too easy.

“Well, you don’t have to drink, but I’m about to throw a casserole in the oven,” You leave that statement where is and let him approach it how he will. He could say _Sounds delicious, hope you have a nice dinner,_ and let you know without saying a whole lot that he’s not interested in seeing you or anything of the sort.

He could be silent, uncertain on his end of the line, a different sort of reluctant and you could breeze on like you didn’t invite him over for dinner.

“And?” he says, tone guarded, and you perk up.

_Ah, interested, then._

“And you could help me eat it. Or you could rudely turn down my invitation,” You smirk when you hear him clear his throat, and you lick your lips, “But you may have endangered my life, who knows if we’ll ever get another chance to be civil to one another.”

You’re sure you hear his eyes roll, his teeth grit together, but he replies rather evenly, “Where do you live, Y/N?”

You don’t hide your laugh. You tell him your address and he hangs up curtly.

You do throw the casserole in the oven after you finish your first glass. You get plates ready for the table, and then you walk around your studio apartment making sure nothing is out of place or untidy. You pick stray articles of clothing from the floor and toss them in your hamper. The last thing you want Oswald seeing is your rather pricey, rather provocative undergarments.

When there’s nothing to do but wait you sit back down on your couch and resume your contemplation of Gotham’s oddly cheerful sky. You’ve noticed, in delayed fashion, that you aren’t dreading the future, not actively anyway. You’re still loathe to get married in little under a week, but it doesn’t carry the same kind of weight it did a few days ago.

Maybe your marriage to Oswald will be loose, merely a title. If anything’s been proven it’s that neither one of you wants the marriage, nor the responsibility tacked onto it. You don’t want to get sucked into his criminal life, and he’s no doubt got his sights set high and your plain jobs and simple apartment don’t align to his desires.

Perhaps you’ll only have to keep up appearances around the holidays, take the ring out of storage every now and again, introduce yourself on a number of occasions as Mrs. Cobblepot.

You could both keep your separate apartments, stay a safe distance from one another, keep in touch for the sole purpose of knowing if the other is still alive.

A knock at the door has you snapping out of your thoughts, and you briefly wonder if he’s brought trouble with him. Either way, you refill your glass and wander to the front door, taking your time. He knocks again, louder this time, more insistent, and you don’t know if it’s anger or what, but it gives you some kind of satisfaction.

His fist is raised as you swing the door open and lean on the doorjamb, hip cocked, and his eyes are wide as he takes the sight of you in.

So relaxed with a glass of liquor in hand, a pair of white wash short shorts adorning your shapely legs, a soft cotton t-shirt, loose around your shoulders, the color of expensive merlot, a smug expression on your face.

He’s staring, hand still raised, and you’ve yet to say anything.

You crack a smile and he finds his composure, finds his irritation at your playing a game with his concern.

He rolls his eyes and limps passed you, “Where’s this casserole? Or is there even a casserole at all?” He’s snide, almost petulant, and you turn your head,

“It’s in the oven. Sure you don’t want a drink?”

Oswald throws you a grimace at the prospect and looks around your apartment with an expression matching envy. And then he seems to remember that he barged in without your permission, and his lips purse but he doesn’t apologize.

“You have a nice home,” He says in lieu of an apology.

You shove the door closed, and saunter by him to the living room, and resume your spot on the loveseat. He watches from the short hallway, wary, as you take a sip from your glass and regard him around the rim.

“You going to sit down? The furniture isn’t for decoration.” You quirk a brow at him, and cross one knee over the other.

With a hard swallow he walks over and looking between your armchair and the loveseat he makes the riskier choice and sits down next to you. You smile, and he looks elsewhere, his gaze lands on the liquor bottle; he dawns a pensive expression.

You turn in your seat and prop an arm up on the back of the couch and it draws his attention back to you.

“Why did you invite me over?” he asks you, back straightening like he feels threatened. By you, of all people, the thought makes you chuckle.

Wordlessly, you hold your glass out to him, inviting, and he stares for a hard minute at the liquid in the glass before he slowly takes it from you.

When he does, you grab his wrist lightly and his eyes snap up to yours in alarm. You smile placatingly.

“There’s dried blood under your fingernails, there’s a tear in the shoulder of your suit, you walked in here smelling like gun powder, the toes of your shoes are smeared with the faintest traces of blood as you’ve tried to wipe them clean hastily but failed, there’s a faded bruise under your eye, and your reaction just now when I grabbed you,” You release his wrist, and your smile turns into a smirk, “You’ve had an exciting day, Oswald.”

Oswald stares at you in awe, shocked silent. His eyes, wide, they appraise you in a new light. He’s impressed, perhaps a little intimidated at your abilities of observation. You are a very rare, very appealing creature.

“Tell me about your day, Oswald. Mine was so boring.” You request quietly, and lean to grab the bottle off the table, you pour just a little more into his glass and he’s enraptured with you.

But then he’s snapping out of it with a shake of his head, his bangs swaying across his forehead, “My day was dangerous, and I shouldn’t tell you anything. I shouldn’t even be here.”

You raise your eyebrows. “But you showed up anyway.”

He opens his mouth to argue, to retort with something snappy and snarkish but he realizes you have a point and he doesn’t have any, so he fills his time with taking a drink, his eyes elsewhere.

“Why did you come?” You ask him, your gaze softening so he won’t feel so uncomfortable, and Oswald chews the inside of his cheek as he thinks about his answer.

He gives you a sheepish smile. “I don’t receive invitations of any kind to dine with others,” he’s embarrassed, feeling vulnerable, and then he smiles a more solid smile, tinged with sarcasm, “And given that I could end up dead by the end of the week, well…” he trails off softly, and takes another drink from the glass.

You smile wryly, “Ah, a last meal, then?” you joke, and he half-winces at the implication, the very real possibility that yes, this could be his last meal, and you’re joking about his fragile mortality as if it’s no consequence. “I hope it’s up to par.”

Oswald snorts dryly and glances at your stereo spitting out quiet music that’s difficult to distinguish. The station is weak, so it’s sprinkled with static and the disjointed conversations and music of other stations. Oswald takes another moment to peer around your apartment. The walls are unblemished, no strange stains or peeling wallpaper, the paint is still a healthy color- in its youth unlike his wallpaper well into its twilight years -and the floors (hardwood) are mostly unscathed. There are small nicks in the grain here and there, but there aren’t any stains soaked into the wood, nor are any of the planks chipping away into splintery fragments.

There are no cobwebs in corners, nor dust-coated surfaces, no live wires, nor drafts coming in from the windows and floors, the ceiling doesn’t rain dust and insulation-

“You have a nice home,” he repeats. But this time it’s more calculated, meaningful, not just used to fill the silence. And he’s proud his tone isn’t dripping with jealousy.

“Yours could be too,” you say evenly, and Oswald’s lips press into a flat line. He’s skeptical. “My apartment wasn’t always so nice, I’ve put a lot of time and money into it.” You explain, and drift your gaze about your abode, proud of yourself.

Oswald twitches a weak smile, “Well, I don’t really have an eye for interior design. I wouldn’t even know where to start with my apartment,” He regards his liquor again, blinking steadily at the reflection of the ceiling in his cup.

You smile faintly, “You start with the wallpaper, but I’ve a feeling you don’t intend to stay in your apartment forever. You’ve got your sights set higher, don’t you?”

Oswald shrugs good-naturedly. “That was the plan. But I find it unlikely that I’ll survive the week, though not for lack of trying.” He informs you rather lightly, and you find yourself scoffing with mirth.

The alcohol has done its job of loosening him up, and you find that once relaxed, he’s rather pleasant to be around. Much different from the stuttering anxious man he was in the diner. There are many facets to his personality, and each throws a different color, a separate sound, a new angle that reveals a depth or a shallowness you had not previously noted. He’s a character, that’s for sure.

“You seem the wily type, someone that has contingencies and ‘in case of emergencies’ rolled up and ready to be used at a moment’s notice,” You remark coolly, and Oswald adopts a small smile, and hides it around the rim of his glass, but you see it. In response to his silence, his subdued shyness, you take a swig from the bottle and glance at the kitchen.

It shouldn’t be much longer on the casserole.

Oswald shakes his head, at himself, or you, it isn’t clear. “I assure you, I’m just a simple umbrella boy, with complicated ambitions. Nothing more,” It’s false modesty, delivered well, cloaked in humility and self-deprecation and you spot it a mile away.

You smile furtively. “Oh, Oswald, I think we both know that isn’t true.” You hum, your eyes just narrowed the slightest bit with your smile and it makes your eyes darker. Something flashes in his own blue-greens, something sharp and deadly and intelligent, and then it’s gone just as quick as it appeared.

He stares into your kitchen, his brows pinched the smallest amount with a quiet but ominous emotion, and he licks his lips. “How much longer?”

You lay your head in the palm of the hand you have on the back of the couch, “Pardon?”

He swallows harshly, “The casserole,” He replies curtly, and the stiffness of his tone makes you grin.

He’s so bipolar, temperamental, and while you can’t find what makes him tick, you’ve found a million buttons today that illicit negative responses, and you’re trying to file them all away.

“Can’t be too much longer,” You say, not sparing the kitchen a glance, instead you watch his profile, his bird-like profile, “Surely, you’re not in a rush. Can’t be excited to walk into the vast unknown of this weekend…”

“Excited? No.” Oswald sighs with a rather uncommitted roll of his eyes, as if you’ve just delivered a disappointing joke. Suddenly, he gives you a sober look, one that’s full of pragmatism, “If my lifespan is cut to the end of this week, well, you’ll be free as a bird.”

He’s talking about the marriage, you realize, and while the thought has been at the back of your mind, you’ve not really given it any contemplation. Lest you find glee in the fact, and you’d rather avoid the moral debate of finding joy in someone’s death. Even at your benefit.

You smirk. “Shall I reimburse you for the ring? Just in case?”

Oswald stares at you, hard, his mouth tugged down in a rough frown. “No. Don’t let it trouble you.” He intones flatly.

From the kitchen, the timer on the oven goes off, ringing shrilly and Oswald’s cold glare shoots towards it, as if the nature of conversation at hand has been made sour by the kitchen appliance and not the participants of the conversation itself.

Fractionally amused with him, you stand and wander into the kitchen, the bottle of whiskey swinging in your hand with the looseness of your gait and you feel his eyes at your back. And something in the air drops, something goes cold and forces you to measure your breath, to calculate your movements with caution. Your blood hums, but just under the brunt of the chill invading your bones, it puts you on edge. _Delightfully_ on edge.

There’s no more static, a clear signal lets the music once hidden roll about the space of your apartment with rampant ease, and you peer over your shoulder to find Oswald at your stereo, his gaze cold, but his body relaxed. His glass is almost empty, and he seems to realize it, to notice, because after a small swig he looks over at you, his green-blues appearing more blue, darker.

And you realize that it’s him. The difference in the air, the cold in your lungs, the apprehension that weakens your tendons and makes your pulse kick like a drum. This is one of those moments, one of those shadow-and-light moments that he appears attractive.

You’re at the oven, leaning against counter beside it and the bottle hangs loosely, dangles dangerously in your undedicated grip as you stare at him, and he stares right back. There are no lyrics to go with the song, and it makes you listen harder, focus on the stereo, focus on him.

He pulls his attention away for the briefest of moments, one: to turn the volume up on your radio, and two: to silently grieve the near-emptiness of his glass. And then he’s staring again, expectantly, with a razor-sharp gleam in his ocean-dark eyes, and a vague recollection comes to you that there’s a casserole you need to be serving, but it’s a footnote, unimportant. Especially with the way he’s looking at you.

You’ve a problem, you recognize that much, because you see in his changeable eyes that he is unstable, he’s dangerous. And he knows it, he knows what he is better than anyone, knows how to hide it. And he’s choosing not to right this moment. There’s nothing more dangerous than a man who knows exactly how dangerous he is.

There’s something, deep within you, a quiet voice that whispers and beats back against your self-preservation- it tells you, informs you, that you aren’t scared. Not in the slightest. It doesn’t tell you to run, it tells you to wait.

Wait for him to approach.

And he does.

The limp should bring some sort of humor to the situation, diffuse the tension thickening between you like a fog, but instead it hardens the moment. It’s ludicrous, really. But all you can think is that even with his limp he is a predator, and he is no less at a disadvantage for it. It’s almost nerve-wracking to know that even with his slight handicap he is still ruthless, still capable.

He stops in front of you, a hair’s breath away, nothing between you but the glass he holds in his hand. He says nothing for a while, and neither do you. You seep in the moment, the raw unhidden animosity that swirls in his dark blue irises like the churning waves of the sea. The alcohol should make his eyes glassy, but he’s sharp-eyed and intimidating and you haven’t moved.

You haven’t wanted to move, and he sees that.

The moment doesn’t break, it more…slides along smoothly like ice across a surface that’s been heated in an unbalanced fashion.

Smoothly, you drop the neck of the bottle along the rim of his glass and you refill his drink as his eyes flash overt hidden meanings and his breath leaves him in measured pulls that are rich and languorous, and when you stop pouring he grabs your wrist with his free hand.

Oswald can see in this moment, can see it plainly, there’s attraction. And it’s mutual, flowing both ways. It is freeing, liberating even to know that your attraction has only been made clear, made present by that which he hides from everyone like a coveted jewel: his true disposition.

You are not repulsed, not confused. You are drawn in, drawn to the darkened hue of his eyes, the hatred and fiery ambition that’s almost been made rancid by years of waiting.

With no sense of haste, he insists the glass into your palm, and with slow, soft fingers pries the bottle away from your other.

“Hypothetically,” He mutters, his tone akin to smoke, and you clench your teeth covertly at the smoothness of it, the auspicious nature of his voice, “Say I do survive this week…”

He stops there, and not from shyness. No, he is not shy in this moment. He stops because he wonders just how far this attraction goes, he wonders how far you’d be willing to fall into this side of him, this cloak-and-dagger, knife-in-his-pocket, unapologetic scheming side of him.

The corner of your mouth twitches ever so slightly, “If you survive, I’ll help you pick out a new wallpaper for your apartment.”

His own mouth twitches in response, “I quite like yours.” His tone, though unreadable, doesn’t change, “In fact, I quite like your taste. Would it be rude of me to request a sample?”

Coyness outfitted with the faintest accents of smugness…it fits him well.

You’ve no problem giving him a sample. None.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. I'm all about reading between those lines for this story. Sorry. If you're reading, leave me a comment, or don't. It's not like I can force you...unless you're into that kind of stuff ; ) Okay, okay, I'm done dicking around. We've got one more chapter to go (roundabout anyway) and I look forward to seeing you all again. <3


	4. In Sickness and In Health

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life is full of surprises, and you hate surprises. This one, though, this one you don't mind. What's that saying about distance and the heart?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quite possibly the last chapter unless inspiration strikes. Regardless, thank you to everyone that enjoyed the story, left kudos, or commented. Even if you didn't like it, thank you for reading it anyway. You all surprised me with your affinity for this short story starring our moody penguin, and I won't be able to thank you enough. <3 <3

It seems almost irrefutable close to two weeks later when you’ve heard nothing from him. You don’t mourn. In fact, you continue your life in a seamless fashion, as if nothing at all has changed. You go to work, you go to the grocery store, you try, best as you can, to avoid Ms. Cobblepot. She’s been attempting to comfort or some such nonsense since Oswald went ‘missing’, saying he just got cold feet because he’s “Such a sensitive boy.”

You could laugh at the notion. You know better: chances are, Oswald’s body is floating somewhere downstream of Gotham, on its way to the ocean to be picked at by sea carnivores. You pretend to be sad in her presence, because someone should at least be affected by the death of their fiancé, even if there was no love involved.

She’s alone now, Ms. Cobblepot, in her dismal, disappointing apartment whose door jams and shudders in the frame because it is so old. You call her occasionally, ask her if she’s doing well, and she thinks you’re so sweet, so kind-hearted. But really you just pity her.

Sometimes, if you’re feeling generous, you’ll stop by with a meal still hot out of your oven and you’ll eat dinner with her.

But you’re careful not to spend too much time with Ms. Cobblepot. Oswald’s warning and apprehension still sits in your mind. You doubt anyone is watching you, but you can’t be sure. You maintain a safe distance, and wholly, when out and about, appear unaffected and oblivious to the fact that Oswald Cobblepot is no more.

But you will say this: you’ve not touched that bottle of liquor in close to three weeks because it makes you think of Oswald, and that just won’t do. Not at all. So, you’ve taken to drinking wine instead because nothing about wine correlates to your memory of Oswald.

Your apartment has been quiet since then as well. You don’t turn on the radio. You merely curl up in your loveseat with a good book and steadfastly ignore the empty cushion. You don’t spend a lot time in your kitchen either, because there, seeped and soaked in macabre allure is a memory that haunts you in ways that it shouldn’t.

True, that he isn’t conventionally attractive. Somehow though, you find yourself drifting into your threadbare number of memories of Oswald and you pull and cling to those few moments where you felt undeniably attracted to him.

You must admit, rather reluctantly, that it is a shame he’s dead. The man that he was, here in your kitchen that night…you don’t think you’d have minded spending time with that man. And what the hell does that say about you?

Your cellphone rings from the depths of your cushions and you blink in startled fashion. You shove your hand in the space between them and free your phone. Attention drawn back to the book in your lap, you answer dully, “Hello?”

There’s only the response of shaky, ragged breathing on the other end and you furrow your brows in discomfort. But there’s something vaguely familiar about it.

“Hello?” You say again, sitting up straighter, straining your hearing and you can faintly make out the sounds of traffic in the background.

More struggled breaths, until finally a voice slides into your ear with all the poise of a drunkard traversing a case of stairs, “Y/N…?”

Your eyes widen, the grip you have on the book in your lap tightens. “Oswald? Is that you?”

He chuckles weakly, almost in disbelief. “Yes. Yes, it’s me. I- ” he cuts himself off and the world on his end of the line is suddenly muffled to near silence for a few moments. He returns shortly, “I’m back in Gotham. But I- I find myself at sea with nothing to hold onto, I’m afraid, and I- ”

You close your eyes and sigh as quiet as you can. “I assume the people that killed you believe you dead?”

“Well, it was a detective that quote on quote ‘shot’ me, but- the people that wanted me dead do believe me to be so…”

You save a spot in your book and toss it onto the coffee table, “Mooney, you mean?”

You can almost hear him smile, “Yes. You’re quite astute,” he releases a breathy chuckle. “In any case, what I wanted to ask-”

“Was whether I could harbor you for a while?” Your eyebrows are quirked, your tone belies nothing, but he’s gone quiet. “You know your mother thinks you just took off? Cold feet, she says, if she’s not muttering about you getting tangled in- and I quote –‘Some hussy’s demon purse’. Whatever the Hell that means.”

Oswald groans, all manner of irritated and embarrassed. “She- ugh, I don’t even date,” he grumbles, and you slap a hand over your mouth to stop the giggles from escaping. He huffs, “Listen, I just need a few days. A few days to work out a plan and then I’ll be gone.”

You sit quietly, as if contemplating, but really you’ve already made your decision. Life has been dreadfully dull these last few weeks, and Oswald coming back from the dead is about as exciting as your life could ever get.

“Y/N?” He prods softly, sounding hesitant and vulnerable, and you wonder just how much trouble he’s gotten himself in.

“Yeah, sure. Why not?” you respond lightly, and the sigh of relief you hear from him is nothing short from a worshipful ‘thank you’. “You hungry?” You ask him.

He groans. “Starving.”

“You’re in luck. I was just about to make something.” You’re lying of course. You had eaten before coming home today, you just hadn’t been in the mood to cook.

“Thank you, Y/N. Thank you so much!” You can hear the smile in his voice, the crystal-clear gratitude. “I’ll see you soon!” he says, and he hangs up.

Once again, you comb your apartment to be sure it’s clean, and when you’re satisfied it is you head into your kitchen to make stir-fry. Initially, you had planned to make it for tomorrow’s dinner but plans have changed.

The chicken and vegetables are just about done by the time he knocks on your door and you turn down the stove as you go to answer. This time when you swing the door open he’s smiling and overflowing with gratitude and good emotion and you’re struck silent.

He looks like he’s gone twelve rounds with a cement mixer and lost every one of them. He looks ill as well, and the clothes he’s wearing don’t fit him, size wise as well as fashion. And he…you smile tightly…he’s in need of a shower.

With a sweeping gesture you motion him inside. “The stir-fry is almost done,” You tell him and he hobbles in, a satchel bag swinging from his shoulder. You’ve a feeling that nothing he’s wearing belongs to him.

As he’s standing in your apartment, looking around at the general cleanliness he seems to remember his own state of disarray and he smiles sheepishly, tucking his hands into his pockets. As the door closes, he licks his lips and makes a request,

“Would it be alright if-…” his smile flops a little flat, “Could I use your shower?”

“Yeah, of course,” You motion to the door on the far side of the room. “There’s a washer and dryer in there as well. I can see if I can’t find something that might fit you…” He flashes you another smile and starts towards the bathroom as you wander into your bedroom and paw through your dresser drawers.

Obviously, nothing of  your own would fit Oswald. But fortunately, you’ve a few stray articles of clothing from past lovers. A college sweatshirt from your boyfriend at the time, and a pair of dark blue sweatpants with maroon drawstrings. They should fit him, if a little loosely.

You pad over to the stove and stir the chicken and vegetables to ensure none of it burns and then you head towards the bathroom. You stop at the door and knock softly, “Oswald?”

“Y-yes?” his voice is muffled by the door and the faint hiss of the shower, as well as the hum of the washing machine.

“I have clothes for you to change into.” You inform him gently, and after a moment of silence the door cracks open just long for his hand to emerge around it. He’s standing behind the door, hidden from view. You smile at the shyness, the embarrassment he’s no doubt feeling, and drop the clothes into his hand.

He thanks you and the door closes.

Now you’ve nothing to do but wait for him. You set the table, putting into one bowl the chicken and vegetables and the other, the rice. On a whim, you bring out that half-empty bottle of liquor and pour yourself a glass, musing over the events of the past few weeks and how strange your life has become.

He’s not in the shower half as long as you expect him to be, and when he emerges he looks a few years younger, lighter in the eyes and shoulders, and while he does appear a little different in a sweatshirt and sweatpants, he looks ten-times better than how he walked in.

You hear his stomach growl from across the room and you can’t help the smile that makes its way across your lips.

You let him eat his fill. He maintains manners, but it’s easy to see that he is practically starving. He eats two helpings before he leans back in his seat with heavy lids, and sighs contentedly. Your own plate sits empty, but you’d not eaten as much. He hadn’t seemed to notice.

As you stand to clean the table, he snaps to attention looking almost beside himself in surprise. He scrambles to his feet. “I’ll help,” He says and pushes his chair in. He grabs his own dishes and deposits them in the sink.

You smile at his back. “Sure. I’ll wash, you dry.” It strikes you like the low intone of a brass bell just how domestic the situation has become. But it’ll only be for a few days, surely.

As you wash dishes and hand them off to Oswald, your slippery fingers come in contact every now and again with his soft dry ones, and each time he sneaks a furtive glance at you, and you pretend not to notice.

If that isn’t an accurate portrayal of your relationship so far: he sees, he notices, and you pretend not to.

The night passes without spectacle, you make his bed on the loveseat, giving him a pillow and a cozy throw blanket and he’s all soft thanks and tired blinks, and you both fall asleep relatively easily on opposite sides of the room from one another.

Or at least, you do. Oswald, however, is awake far into the night listening to you breathe and shift around in bed, and he’s roving a memory, turning it over and over in his mind of the last time he was here, and he can still taste it on his tongue. He can still feel, on his lips, that alcohol heavy kiss, and he’s yearning for the ghost of it, pining for a future memory.

He falls asleep sometime near two o’clock in the morning, and it is a restless sleep. He dreams relentlessly of you.

And you…you dream of nothing.

When he wakes in the morning, a light patter of rain beating the skylight above his head, he breathes deep and burrows his head further into the pillow you gave him. Coconut and lavender, your bodywash and shampoo. It clings to the pillowcase, and to him since he took a shower last night, and Oswald peeks one eye open apprehensively.

No lights on, no dishes in the sink, radio off. He lifts his head and finds you sitting up in bed, a book in your lap, hair piled atop your head in a messy bun. Your sheets are billowed and wrinkled around your waist, pillows resting against your headboard as a make-shift backrest.

Light spills across your form, your reading lamp emitting a dull glow. Oswald watches your eyes slowly canvas the page, back and forth, back and forth, until you turn the page. He can’t read the title, but judging from your rapt interest, it has to be good.

Suddenly, your gaze flickers up and meets his own, and he freezes.

His hair is a mess, sticking out and poking up in a dozen different directions and his eyes are a little hazy with morning grog. He appears like a deer in headlights, as if he wasn’t expecting you to be in your own home. Where else would you be?

“Morning.” You say, and cock an eyebrow.

Oswald blinks rapidly, and sits up with a groan. “Is it?”

“That’s what usually follows night.” You point out blandly, and it earns you a flat look. He tosses the blanket off his lap, rubs his eyes and then clears his throat awkwardly.

“Your clothes are dry and folded, sitting on the washer,” You inform him, turning another page of your book.

“Well, they aren’t exactly…” Oswald trails off, his tone implying something you already know, and his eyes belying something you don’t. “But thank you.”

You hum, uncommitted to the sound and the conversation. A few minutes go by where Oswald fiddles for something to do, his hands twitching on his thighs, and his eyes sneaking glances at you. Eventually, he takes to folding the blanket, and when he’s done with that he gets up to meander about your apartment, looking at this and that, peering at your bookshelves, your collection of vinyl, taking stock of the pictures on your walls.

He makes a full circle of your apartment, ending in your bedroom, staring, entranced, at a landscape picture opposite your bed. Nothing special, just a black-and-white photo of a beach near evening, waves roiling and pitching, seafoam coating the break-point on the shoreline. There are no people in the picture, a long stretch of sand and ocean devoid of human-life. No seagulls either.

It’s somehow haunting.

He moves on, pretending he doesn’t avidly feel and notice your presence. On the empty side of your bed, just beside the pillow is another end table. Nothing on it except a picture and a bronze tin of sweets, a bow wrapped around it.

He picks up the frame. Two women smile back at him. One is very recognizable, you. But younger, happier. The other woman is unfamiliar. She smiles softly, quaintly, a hand on your shoulder, lips barely quirked with any emotion at all. But the eyes on her, they pull him in like gravity.

Before he’s realized what he’s doing, he’s sitting down on your bed, staring at this photograph with a crease between his brow. You were so vibrant in this picture from who knew how long ago, teeth gleaming, eyes dazzling like diamonds under light.

You’ve been watching him. Wary, uncertain, a tad bit put-off.

“Is this...?” He turns towards you, angling the photograph in your direction like it’s the first time you’ve ever come across it.

You lay your book down, and stretch over the distance to grab it, almost lying down. Your eyes rove a very familiar face, and you fight off a frown. “My mother.” You say succinctly, lips pressing thin. With a huff, you reach out and put it back on the end table, one hand in the mattress holding you steady and upright.

Oswald watches you, eyes skimming the smoothness of your shoulder, muscle flexing in your forearm, tank top wrinkling and bunching at your waist. There are strands of hair escaping from the bun on your head, falling impishly around the shell of your ear. The subtle curve of your throat as you stretch is something Oswald takes keen interest in.

“What happened to her?” He asks, his voice a rasp.

You flop down on the unused pillow, crook an arm underneath it, and regard him coolly. “She left. A while ago.”

Oswald’s expression pinches. “I’m sorry.”

You shrug as well as you can. “She was a terrible mother. Some people just aren’t cut out for it.”

Oswald smiles wryly. “You’re right about that. Some people can do more harm than good trying.” He replies, hands clasping his hands together between his legs.

You sigh, reminiscing of by-gone days where possibility was all you had and it fulfilled. Sometimes you think your mother had the right idea, saw something you didn’t. Sometimes you regret not being more like her.

“Breakfast?” You ask suddenly, and don’t wait for his input before you’re rolling out of bed and heading toward the kitchen, tugging your hair free of its elastic band.

“I-..yes, thank you, that sounds wonderful.” Oswald stumbles, watching you go, hair tumbling, cascading down over your shoulders and back, swaying with the gait of your walk. He rubs at his eyes, clears his throat and heads to the bathroom as you swing your fridge open.

He leans against the shut door and breathes deep, his focus landing on that ugly sweater he walked in here wearing last night. He tugs at the drawstrings of the hoodie he’s wearing currently, and regards his countenance in the mirror with a scowl.

Well as he can he fixes his hair with water-slicked fingers, gargles mouthwash, and rubs the sleep from his face with a hot wash cloth. A knock at the door startles him and he just narrowly avoids tipping your toothbrush cup into the sink.

“Food’s done.” You tell him curtly and retreat.

He looks over himself again, frowning at his tired eyes, slightly chapped lips and weak pallor. He grunts, clearing a tickle from his throat and hurries back to the kitchen. You’ve made a simple stack of pancakes, ten-high, and laid out butter, jam, syrup, peanut butter, etc.

Oswald takes a seat across from you, eyebrows high, stomach seconds away from growling. Two glasses of milk sit nearby, condensation beading on the glasses, running down in rivulets.

“I’ve got coffee on…” You gesture loosely behind you in indication. “Dig in.” You say, forcing a smile. And he does. You sit for a moment, your mind wandering, galloping backwards through the years.

Sometimes you think your mother had it right. Sometimes you regret not being more like her.

As you wash dishes and Oswald dries them, he rolls his shoulders free of a clenching tension, something he feels in his bones, and swallows hard against a scratch in his throat. As you pull the plug on the drain and Oswald hands you the dish towel to dry your hands on, he leans into your counter, blinking hard. A sudden rush of heat overtakes his body.

“You alright?” you ask him, noticing his strange behavior. He nods at you, pulling a deep breath in through his nose. His temples gleam with a faint sheen of sweat, and his neck is flushed red. Brow furrowing, you reach tentatively out and lay the back of your hand on his forehead.

He gasps, flinching away from your hand  even though it felt deliciously cool against his burning skin.

“You’re sick,” You state with a sigh, and he gives you a look so soaked in denial it’s like you just accused him of drowning a litter of kittens. “It’s no surprise, I doubt the past few weeks have been like a weekend in Vegas.”

“I can’t be sick,” he protests, shaking his head, “I have- I have a job to do. A plan. There’s-…I can’t be sick.” He says again, and hobbles away, all stubborn and childish.

You cross your arms over your chest, “Well, apparently you can.” He wanders back to the bathroom, door closing behind him and you suppose he’s changing his clothes, so you situate yourself on your couch and turn your tv on. You bypass the news and settle instead on a nature documentary.

You make it through an entire program before you realize that Oswald never left the bathroom. Curiosity piqued, you venture to the door and knock softly, “You still alive in there?”

There’s shuffling, a groan, fumbling with the doorknob and then Oswald levers it open. “Classy, Y/N.”

You shrug, take in his flushed face, his other clothes laying in a heap on the floor, “Didn’t get too far, I see.”

He glares at you, red-rimmed eyes narrowed in irritation. “I’m sick…” he admits, but he says it informatively. Like, _hey, listen to this, you won’t believe it._

You purse your lips. “Really?”

He stifles a cough, rolls his eyes and lumbers past you. “Yes, yes. Soak it up. Do you have any Tylenol?”

“Do you have any manners?”

Oswald huffs, and throws himself onto your couch. “Fresh out, I’m afraid.”

You humor him, get him a glass and a few pills to take edge off his fever and aches, and sit down on your coffee table. His skin, underneath all the fever, is sheet white, and his forehead is creased with lines of discomfort, mouth twisted in a frown.

“You’re kind of pathetic, you know that?” you remark tactlessly, and his eyes snap open to bore into you  like knives. Unfortunately, the effect is dampened by the glaze in them, and the red-rims, so you merely push your eyebrows toward your hairline. “Here, take them.”

He does it begrudgingly, groaning. He downs the whole glass of water and then sinks back into your couch. “My throat hurts.” He complains like a child.

“I bet it does.” You shoot back listlessly, and toss the blanket over him. You take the armchair and continue on with the marathon of nature documentaries they have going on for whatever reason. Occasionally Oswald sighs or groans, or tosses and turns, but for the most part he’s quiet.

“Change the channel.” He grumbles quite out of the blue, and you look at him. 

“What? Why?” You glance at the tv, watching an endless line of emperor penguins trek through a blizzard across a stark white landscape.

“I hate penguins.” He grunts, dull blue eyes glowering mildly at the screen.

“You-?...okay.” You don’t change the channel, and he seems to understand that you won’t be changing the channel after about ten seconds. Suddenly, your eyes narrow, and you lean forward in your seat. And then you look at him. Back at the screen.

When a smirk starts pulling your lips, Oswald actually growls at you, and you laugh.

You nod a few times, and sink back into your chair. “I get it.”

He closes his eyes and turns on his side, facing the back of the couch. “I doubt you really do.” He dozes off, to the sound of David Attenborough narrating a dangerous of journey of birds he hates more than anything traversing the icy tundra of the arctic.

“Wake me up if they all die.” He grouses.

“Sure thing, Penguin.”

He clenches his jaw, “I’ll kill you, Y/N.”

“Mm. Pretty sure I can outrun you.”

He snorts, tugs the blanket tighter around his shoulders and fights off a smile. If he isn’t careful, he might actually end up falling for you.

“…want some tea?”

Then again, what’s the worst that could happen? Sure, you’re irritating as all Hell, but ultimately harmless.

He pokes his head up, peering down the length of his body at you. “What kind?”

You look at him flatly, “Does it matter?”

He frowns. “I don’t like lemon.”

 

Oswald is sick for a grand total of five days and by the third you’ve earnestly considered strangling him in his sleep. Day five and you’re pissier than you can ever remembering being in your life. Oswald doesn’t seem to notice, he’s too relieved to be back at full health.

He’s fresh out of the shower, wiping a towel over his wet midnight locks, dressed in a light blue button up and darkwash jeans. He looks so domestic.

“I feel amazing.” He sighs, snatching up his satchel bag on the floor by your record player.

“Good for you,” You croak from the cocoon of your blankets on the couch, and Oswald jolts near the kitchen table, surprised to hear your voice.

His piercing blue eyes land on you… “You sound horrible.” He adjusts the strap of his bag, glancing at the door.

“I’m sick.” You hiss at him vehemently, and then come up coughing harshly, and he winces.

“That’s…unfortunate.” Oswald grimaces at you, looking worried. Worried for his own health. He can’t get sick again.

“It’s your fault,” You glare, but give up, the effort of holding your head upright to look at him isn’t worth it.

“I-…that’s a fair deduction. But I’ve caused you enough strife as it is, I should be on my way.” He’s half-way out the door before he finishes his first sentence, and the slab of wood shuts just after his last word, and the apartment is silent.

You lay for a few miserable moments, basking in it. Another coughing fit wracks your body, and you fight it to reach forward for your mug of tea on the coffee table that you’ve been sipping on all morning. It’s most likely luke-warm by now, but you need it.

Your fingertips skim the porcelain curve of its body, you catch it again. The clamminess of your skin is enough to create friction and the cup turns enough to bare the handle to you. You know you should probably sit up for this, but it sounds like too much effort, and you’ve been looking after Oswald for nearly a week. Surely you can wrangle this. Surely.

You’re wrong.

You curl a couple fingers around the mug’s arm, tug, tentative, the muscles in your arm and wrist whining in protest. But you persist. And you pay for it. As you tug the mug towards you, it catches in the notch of the table, between the slats of wood and it tips over.

You attempt to rectify the situation and fumble to catch the mug which only leads to it spilling all over your arm, and crushing one of your fingers to the table. And it’s at this moment that your front door opens again and Oswald stands in the threshold.

He appears sheepish, all of two seconds before he takes in the sight of you, half-laying on the floor, shirt sleeve soaked in room temperature tea, shoulders shaking. He makes his way over to you, dumping his bag into your armchair before he helps you back onto the couch, and then he sits down on your coffee table, mindful of the tea on it and the floor, and then he looks at you, expression unreadable.

“You’re kind of pathetic, you know?” He says, a smug smile just starting to tug at his lips, but it falters for purchase when your breathing stutters and your eyes well up. He holds his hands up suddenly, in front of him, palms out, the universal sign for surrender.

You wipe at your moist eyes with your shirt sleeve, not even conscious of the fact that it’s the one soaked in tea. Oswald grimaces in distaste, and leaves to get you a paper towel after his search for a tissue turns up fruitless. He had used them all when he was sick.

You’re still wiping at your eyes and sniffling when he comes back and pries your hand away from your face. “Sorry, probably not the best time to be snarky.” He says, wiping your face free of tea and unbidden tears.

“You’re mean.” You tell him, sniffling again, and he scoffs.

“And you’re not?” He retorts, and mops up the tea on the coffee table gingerly. It’s going to stain the wood. “Can I get you anything?”

You lean back into the couch and sigh, “More tea?”

“Is that really a good idea?”

“Well, all my medicine is gone. Gonna have to go the homeopathic route.” You rub at your temples, feeling a headache coming on, a side effect of all the congestion you have.

Oswald watches you from beside the microwave, his arms crossed. You’re so pitiful now, bags under your eyes, emotions frayed to nil, curled up in a ball on the couch, wrapped in layers of blankets to work off a chill that won’t subside.

The microwave screams at him, and he rescues your cup of tea. Plonks a tea bag in the steaming hot water, and then opens your half-cabinet by the fridge where you keep all your pills and medicines and vitamins, etc. The only thing that might help you about now is ibuprofen for the headache you have and the fever. But you’re fresh out of cold medicine.

He limps back to you, puts the new mug on a coaster, and frees two pills from the bottle. “Take these,” He instructs, insisting them into your palm. You take them dry and heave a sigh.

“You didn’t even lock my front door when you left.” You realize belatedly, and Oswald reaches for the remote sitting on the table.

“No. Good thing too, because I wouldn’t have been able to get back in.”

“Oh, my hero.” You snap at him tiredly, and he barely looks at you.

Oswald searches the tv channels for a good five minutes before he lands on a history channel, and resigns himself to being bored to death. He disassociates there, with his cheek resting on his fist, eyes blankly watching the moving screen.

He only snaps to when you reach for your mug of tea, and he’s got this inkling, so he gets up and hands it to you, ignoring the indignant look you shoot him.

He sits down next to you, and resumes his previous position, elbow on the armrest, cheek leaning on his fist.

The mug is hot, and the tea is hotter, so you nurse it for the duration of the show. Your throat aches something awful, and your muscles twinge and ache relentlessly, your body is chilled despite all the blankets you have wrapped around you.

When the mug is empty, you lay it on the floor. The credits run for this show, and you glance at Oswald. He’s got his deep ocean blues pinned to the hallway, his lips pulled down in a stern frown.

He’s thinking of his next move, that much you can see. You’d like to ask, but you doubt he’d tell you, and as it is, he’s the only person around to take care of you. Best not to piss him off too much.

Oswald only has so much time, and while he’d love to say he’s itching to get out there and set his plan in motion…he’s rather content where he is, which is strange. You’re a vexing woman, to say the least, and sometimes he thinks he’s rather unlucky. But-

He freezes solid when you lay your head on his thigh and heave a sigh through your mouth, stifling a cough.

-there are rare moments where he doesn’t question any of it.

Hesitantly, he pulls the blanket farther up your shoulder and then lays his hand there, all too aware of the contact, but pretending like it doesn’t bother him.

 

You doze for hours, in and out of a stiff-necked daze, noises making their way in to your subconscious, but it’s all pointless. Oswald moved somewhere between hour one and two, maneuvered you gingerly, which you felt like one feels the tug on the seam of their clothing. There, but not important.

It’s only when the entire apartment falls into silence that you well and truly wake up, blinking and groaning. You aren’t cold, you notice that, and the tv has been turned off.

“Welcome back to the land of the living.” Oswald’s voice is at your ear, soft, crooning almost, and it hits you.

You’re laying on him, hands curled at the fabric of his shirt collar, cheek mashed to his collar bone. Was that what he moved you for? And why?

“What time is it?” you ask, voice raspy and grating, and Oswald frowns.

“Just past noon, why? Have somewhere to be?” He snarks, as has become custom. He isn’t certain it’s because the two of you are discontent with one another, it just feels easy to fall into.

“Sort of,” you reply and detach yourself from him, feeling his hand coast along your back as you do. You had no idea it was even there to begin with.

“Hate to rain on your parade, but I don’t think you’re going anywhere.” He quips, watching you swing your legs over the couch. “I should know.”

You ignore him, and heave yourself to your feet only for the room to start spinning. Your legs tremble and ache at the joints.

Oswald puts a hand on your lower back and joins you, eyeing the weak pallor of your face and the dazed look in your orbs. “You should rest some more.”

You wobble on your feet, a weak from adorning your lips, but you relent that he has a point. “Fine,” You nod, and slowly make your way to your bed, “Could you make me another cup of tea, please?” You figure you should at least try to be polite, after all, he could leave at any moment.

“Lemon?” he asks with clear distaste and you don’t have to look at him to know he’s got his lip curled. You hum an affirmative and he shuffles to the kitchen.

You burrow into your comfy bed and observe him in your kitchen. He’s like the appliances he fits in so well, you don’t even think twice about him standing there with his arms crossed waiting for the microwave to beep. The apartment has always felt large to you, empty. But even with him silent and brooding and somewhat detached as he plots mischievous things behind his ocean blues- the apartment feels cozy, just the right size and aesthetic.

As he waddles back over with your cup in hand, he says, “You need to eat something.”

“What, can you actually cook?” You look at him incredulously, and he flattens his lips, unamused.

“I live alone, Y/N,” He reminds you, setting your cup down on the bedside table. “Of course I know how to cook. I’d starve if I didn’t.”

You rub at your eyes, a pout tugging the corners of your lips. “Fair point. I don’t know what’s in there to work with. Good luck.”

Oswald nods curtly, hobbles into your kitchen and scours your cabinets and all nooks of your refrigerator in hopes of finding something to make.

You watch him, having nothing better to do. Your phone is charging over by the TV,  your books are stacked under your coffee table, and the weather is decidedly dull.

He’s dragged a pan onto the stove, poured what looks like broth of some sort into it. He has a bag of noodles laying out, a carrot, bell pepper and the last little wedge of an onion laying on a cutting board. It appears he’s going to make homemade soup.

You’re somewhat impressed. You cautiously sip at your steaming tea, “I’ve a few potatoes in that hanging basket beside the fridge,” You remark, clearing your throat afterward.

Oswald waves a hand at you absently, pausing his task of slicing vegetables to do so. “Thank you.” He says, not sounding grateful whatsoever.

Keeping occupied with food helps him to forget you’re here, helps him to forget he’s not in his own apartment. Helps him forget that he should be elsewhere, scheming and keeping good on his promise to Don Falcone. If he doesn’t think about his past it’s easy to convince himself he belongs here, making you a ‘get well’ meal.

Perhaps it’s the illness taking hold, but Oswald could swear up and down that you’re a degree more amiable towards him than he’s becomes accustomed to in such a short time. It makes him confused because he enjoys your niceness, wants to do things to earn more of it. He has to constantly remind himself that there’s nothing between you.

That one kiss in your kitchen- right where’s standing in fact -only happened because you both had been drinking. That’s it. There’s no other reason. So, he shouldn’t want to kiss you again. Or have you curled against him on the couch, he shouldn’t want to run the knuckles of his fingers up and down your back while he’s in idle thought. He shouldn’t want to crawl into that bed with you, wrap an arm around your shoulder and have you fall asleep on his chest.

He shouldn’t want any of those things. But knowing doesn’t stop him.

He hears you sneeze in a pattern of three, sniffle sharply and then groan pitifully. He frowns. You may have caught his illness, but it’s hitting you a lot worse than him. He feels a degree guilty, as he should.

Vegetables chopped, he slides them all into the pan, dumps the noodles in, and covers it. He sets it on a low simmer, gets a cold glass of water and shuffles back over to you. You’re sitting up against the headboard, bloodshot eyes watery, skin sickly.

He puts the glass down gently. “There’s a convenience store down the block. I’m going to make a trip,  get a few things,” You nod wearily, roll the lip of your comforter between your hands, Oswald whets his lips. “Do you need anything before I leave?”

You shake your head. “Take the house key so you can lock the door on your way out this time,” You sniffle and point at your coffee table. “In that bowl, attached to a key-chain.”

He’s already on his way over, shoving his hand into it as he passes. He picks up his borrowed satchel bag, spares you an ambiguous gaze and then leaves, shutting the locked door behind him. Curiosity coaxes him to look at your keychain and his eyes narrow.

There, swinging between your housekey and the key to the bookstore are two charms. One, a bright cartoony lemon with a little smiley face. The other….the other is a penguin.

He looks over his shoulder at your front door. “She’s fucking with me…” He decides, properly irritated. But, strangely enough, he has to fight the urge to smile all the way down to the ground floor, your keys and charms jingling merrily from his fingers.

 

When he comes back, grocery bag swinging from his hand, keys jingling in the other, he stamps his feet inside. It had started raining on his way back, a light drizzle that quickly turned into a downpour. He had hurried back, but he still ended up quite wet. Instead of positing the keys back into the bowl, he slides them into his back pocket.

“I have drugs,” he informs cheerily, aware of just how questionable his statement sounds. He has a cheeky grin on his lips that plummets when he sees you at your kitchen table, leaning into it, head buried in your arms. Your shoulders shake minutely.

“Y/N?” He inquires, not sure if you’ve had a good cry or if you’re cold. He dumps the plastic bag in the other chair, and glances at your beeping microwave. “What are you doing?”

You mumble into the table. “Soup. Had to stir it. Needed more tea.” Your entire body shivers.

Oswald coasts around to your side, hesitates at your shoulder, hand hovering, and then he cups the underside of your bicep. “Back in bed.”

You grumble, but ultimately let him help you. He’s careful, uncharacteristically patient, accommodating as he tucks you in well as he can. He gets the blankets high as he can, lays the back of his hand on your forehead and frowns firmly.

He delivers your tea as well as your first dose of medicine and then comes back with a hot bowl of soup.

You thank him, compliment his cooking even though you can’t taste anything, and he just grunts at you.

But when you fall asleep Oswald takes a moment, a moment to himself to appreciate things he shouldn’t. A moment to cherish things he shouldn’t. Though he’s loathe to admit it, he’ll miss this when he has to leave. Unless he doesn’t need to.

Depending on how his plan goes, he might…he might not have to leave you at all.

 

Three more days of medicine, of Oswald making himself at home, shooting you dark looks when you call him Penguin everytime you need something, and him threatening you when you do and you’re back to normal functioning capacity.

You’ve showered, brushed your teeth, changed into casual clothes and just swept your hair up into a bun when Oswald hobbles towards you, a steaming mug in hand. With a quirked brow, you accept it. “What’s this?”

Oswald brushes past you, a thoughtful crease between his dark brows. He scoffs, “A habit, now, I suppose. Four days of getting you tea every half-hour-” he lets that sentence trail off.

A tiny smile pulls at your lips. You blow tentatively at your tea, a whiff of lemon coasting up in a tendril of steam.

Oswald swings his satchel onto his shoulder, “Well, it’s been an adventure, Y/N-”

You roll your eyes, sip your tea. “You’ll be back.”

Oswald stops, hands curling around the strap of his bag and scowls at you. “I need to leave. I’ve wasted enough time here.”

You smirk. “Wasted? Ouch. And here I thought we were on our way to making friendship bracelets…”

He scoffs at you, scoffs because if he doesn’t, he’ll smile. He’ll smile and dwindle the distance and do things he shouldn’t want to do.  “I’m leaving your door unlocked,” He says petulantly and turns on his heel.

You laugh at his back and follow him, dropping your tea off at the coffee table after taking another drink. “Why? So, you can come back?”

“I won’t be back, Y/N!” He grouches and yanks your door open. He stands on the threshold, mouth parted to say something more as you approach him…he leaves abruptly, slamming the door.

You snicker to yourself and ignore the sudden quiet, the forlorn sigh the entire apartment seems to emit as you come inches closer to ending this somewhat enjoyable interlude your life took.

You’re within three feet when the door quickly swings open again, and Oswald barges in. You’ve got wit prepared, stock-piled and loaded in the chamber, but you never get to deliver.

His hand finds the side of your neck, skin hot, grip tight, and he pulls you to him. Pulls you into a frustrated kiss that’s overflowing with anger, a hint of defeat, an accent of something dark that propels your senses into guarded overdrive.

His tongue swipes across your bottom lip, he leans back just slightly to grimace. “You taste like lemon.”

You smile knowingly, grab at the button panels of the shirt you bought for him when he was sick. That hideous sweater found a home in your trashcan. You blink at him slowly, his eyes spark back at you, “You hate lemon.” You say, as if reminding him of something trivial.

“Yes, I do.” He confirms, ice-blue eyes darkening. He leans back in, anyway. And tells himself he should. Should have done this sooner. He should do this again. He knows he will.

He resolves himself to properly marry you by the end of the month. Resolves himself to love the taste of lemon by that time too.

And from this day onward Oswald will always be seen- at some point during the day -sucking on a lemon-flavored candy, or cough drop.

He has them at the ready, for when things begin to irritate him and he needs a sliver of you to wedge itself between his illegal agenda and his mounting anger. He has them for long car rides, so he has an excuse not to talk. For when it’s quiet and he’s alone, when a phone call isn’t enough.

It becomes habit for him. You rarely drink lemon tea like you used to, but Oswald doesn’t break his tradition. You’ll ask him why, and he’ll just smile wistfully, unwrap a lemon cough drop and put it into his mouth with a shrug, holding onto a sentiment that he refuses to tarnish with the admittance that you more often than not taste like coffee rather than lemon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive any typos: I was writing this well into the early hours of the a.m. and I'm too lazy to go back over it with a fine tooth comb. *shrugs*


End file.
